


This Empty Space (You Left Behind)

by bazinga01



Category: The Bold Type
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-08 21:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15938396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazinga01/pseuds/bazinga01
Summary: Kat and Adena face the impasse they feel they've reached. (a post-2x10 fic)





	This Empty Space (You Left Behind)

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to accept the canon presented to me by season two of the bold type and write fic that somehow endorsed it. And yet I also still found myself impacted by what the show chose to do and feeling restless with how to proceed as someone who writes fic for this pairing. This is a particular reaction that emerged in my processing of the finale, but I hope you see it as that and nothing more. I'm not trying to validate/justify season two with this, and I'm also not trying to predict where things might be headed. Simply put, I just missed writing for them and this is what emerged. 
> 
> Special shout-out to Robyn's new single "Missing U" for being what finally kickstarted some writing inspiration again. The fic title comes from the lyrics of that song, which you should definitely listen to.

Adena is asleep in their hotel bed with the lights off when she gets back from the Scarlet fashion week party. It shocks her.

She hides in the bathroom, strips out of her formalwear and gets ready for bed. She hates the vulnerability that she sees in the mirror, face free of make-up, hair pulled up and wrapped in a scarf, t-shirt hanging loosely from her shoulders. Not nearly enough armor.

She braces herself for whatever might happen when she crawls into bed, when Adena realizes that she’s back. She wishes she’d left her suit on.

There’s a faint glow of city light pollution illuminating the room through the windows and her heart is beating so hard she can feel it in her throat. She pulls back the duvet, crawls in and lays on her back for several moments, breaths piercing the silence.

Adena is a light sleeper. Adena keeps the same sleep position and never says a word. She’s sure Adena must be awake. She’s terrified to break the silence to find out.

 

She barely sleeps. The panic in her chest makes real rest impossible. She craves to touch the soft skin of Adena’s arm, to cuddle into her sleeping form from behind, to breathe in the scent of her hair. She stays on her back, hands folded across her stomach.

She gives up on sleep at the first hint of daybreak, pulls on some leggings and her favorite hoodie and sneaks out onto the balcony.

Paris is beautiful. Paris is for lovers. Paris feels like heartbreak.

She watches the sun rise over gorgeous facades and cobblestone streets for several minutes and the sinking feeling in her chest signals exactly what’s coming. She should’ve known it would go this way, that it wouldn’t work out. She feels foolish for thinking she could ever be good enough for someone like Adena.

She hears the balcony door slide open behind her and she crosses her arms over her stomach, folds her fingers into the sweaty palms of her hands.

“Morning,” Adena murmurs, stepping up to the railing beside her chair. A pale pink scarf is draped loosely around her head and her eyes are still soft with sleep and Kat thinks that falling in love is the worst decision she’s ever made.

“If you’re gonna break up with me, just do it,” she says, staring blankly out at the city.

There’s a sharp inhale of breath, a pause, and Kat refuses to look at her. Anxiety twists through her stomach and she clenches her jaw, tries to keep her lip from trembling.

“Is that what you want?”

The question is enough to make her scoff, incredulous, and search out Adena’s face. She hates that tears are spilling out no matter how much she tries to will them away, tries to replace them with pure detachment and anger.

Adena’s eyes are so fucking expressive, searching for something in hers, and Kat stares down at her collarbone.

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“ _Kat…_ ”

She stands and leans against the railing, dread seeping through her bones when she looks out at the city again.

“I want you to feel inspired and free.”

 

 

They break up on a balcony at sunrise. Adena is gone and Kat shatters.

 

 

Someone that she doesn’t know contacts her about the best time to pick up Adena’s belongings from the apartment. Kat puts her stuff in three boxes and a duffel bag, arranges a time when she won’t be there. She packs away everything except the scarf that still smells most like Adena, shoves it in a drawer and then walks to the nearest corner store for a bottle of whiskey.

She blacks out on a bench by the river and has just enough sense to text Sutton to come get her before she loses all sense of where she is.

She doesn’t remember much, but Sutton and Jane both give her looks of concern and pity when she wakes up on their couch. They try to coax her into talking about it with homemade pancakes and bacon, but she retches four times in the toilet before showering and eating in silence.

There isn’t anything left to say. She wasn’t enough for Adena, and now Adena is gone. It’s simple really.

 

 

She feels like a hollow shell of herself, drudging through the routine of her job and the bitter New York winter. She can tell that Sutton and Jane are really worried about her, and some days it makes her feel guilty.

Leila texts her, and Kat hasn’t seen her in ages, not since before—

News must’ve travelled about the break up somehow because Leila invites her to a party and makes no mention of Adena.

She almost doesn’t go, but then in the afternoon she passes by a woman and a little boy walking together on the sidewalk and she hears her say _joonam_ along with several other Farsi words she doesn’t understand.

She sends a text off to Leila.

_I’m down. Address?_

 

The party is cramped and she hasn’t paid for a single drink since she got here and there’s a warm body pressed against hers on the dancefloor. She’s tall and muscular and has short hair, feels unfamiliar in all the right ways, and Kat revels in their drunken kiss.

 

She wakes in a bed she doesn’t recognize, throws her clothes on and googles the location of the nearest Starbucks, realizes she’s all the way in Queens.

 

 

 

 

Jane is single and offers to do a horror movie marathon with her on Valentine’s Day, but only if they’re the truly awful low budget ones so they can laugh too.

 

There’s a bucket full of Redvines and a bottle of Chardonnay on the coffee table while an 80’s music sequence plays to _Howling II_ on the tv, and it’s almost enough to make her stop thinking about what her first Valentine’s Day with Adena might have been like.

 

 

 

 

She refuses to admit it because it feels pathetic, even though everyone does it, but she checks Adena’s twitter and instragram accounts. She used to do it way more often, but less so now because there haven’t been any updates. Not in months. Not since Paris.

But it’s almost an obsessive habit at this point, and she nearly drops her phone when she goes to Adena’s Instagram for the first time in a couple weeks and sees a new photo posted.

She’s not in the photo. It’s just a boat and a couple of life jackets and the beautiful blue of the Mediterranean. Adena is in Tunisia. She wonders if Adena feels inspired again, if she feels free.

 

 

 

One morning she sees an ad on the street and decides to sign up for a class. She takes up kickboxing.

Jane tries to drag her to yoga but she doesn’t need to meditate and sit with her thoughts, she needs to _punch_ something until whatever is inside of her releases.

 

 

The trees are finally starting to sprout leaves again and the sun is rising earlier, and her kickboxing instructor is driving them to the brink this afternoon. She’s exhausted and dripping sweat and he doesn’t relent.

He shouts about focus, about overcoming limitations, about concentrating on the object of her frustration. She keeps punching, feels the gloves thud against the weight of the bag, and a sob bursts out of her.

Her arms are shaking with exertion, lungs heaving and vision blurry with tears, and she drops to her knees, hugs the punching bag to steady herself.  

 

 

That night, she tells Sutton and Jane that she’s done with kickboxing. She doesn’t know how to explain to them that it’s because she’s done hating herself.

She thinks they understand though, when she starts to smile again, starts acting like a real friend.

 

 

 

They’re crowded around a box of pizza at her kitchen table and she starts playing the new SZA track through her speakers, does a little shoulder shimmy with a slice of pepperoni in her hand, and Sutton scrunches her nose at her.

“I missed you.”

She almost makes some smart-ass comment, about how she’s been here the whole time, but they’ve been too good to her for that.

“Yeah, me too.”

She stops checking Adena’s socials, so she has no idea that Adena is now in Mexico.

 

 

 

She goes on a date with a girl named Ciara.

Ciara is sweet and very pretty. She has a great sense of humor, and she’s passionate about local politics and community mural projects.

Ciara is an artist (of course she is), but Ciara is born and raised in New York and has no plans to leave the city.

 

Ciara invites her to come paint with her and a group of people in the Bronx on Saturday, swears it’ll be easy, like coloring in the lines in a coloring book.

She shows up in a worn pair of jeans and an old long-sleeve NYU t-shirt, finds herself smiling into Ciara’s kiss when she leans in and hands her a paintbrush.

 

 

 

She’s not in love with her, but she feels happier and more balanced than she has in a long time. It took weeks for her to let Ciara into her apartment, as if it would disrupt something holy, the ghost of a presence long gone.

There’s still a scarf in her dresser drawer that smells faintly of rose water, but most of the time Kat forgets that it’s there.

Ciara doesn’t live here, absolutely not, but she has a toothbrush in the bathroom and she knows how to work the fancy Nespresso machine in her kitchen.

 

 

Kat lets Ciara come to brunch one morning, figures it couldn’t hurt, and when Ciara gets up to use the restroom Sutton gives her a look.

“What?”

“Kat, that girl is so in love with you.”

She stabs at a piece of French toast with her fork and scoffs.

“No she’s not, we’re just having fun.”

Sutton and Jane share a look and both try to hide their smiles.

“You’re being, like, dude-level oblivious right now,” Jane says.

Before Kat can even get a word in, Sutton adds—

“I swear on my new Balenciaga’s—which are gorgeous by the way—"

“—oh my god, yes—”

“—that she wants to be your girlfriend and is afraid of you saying no.”

She has three mimosas at brunch, tries not to let her friends’ comments get to her, and Ciara holds her hand in the booth when they’re done eating. She wants to pull away but she doesn’t want to cause a scene.

 

She ignores Ciara for three days after, but eventually she feels like an asshole and Kat misses her smile and her easy way of being.

Kat invites her over and she makes her come three times instead of explaining herself, and she hopes that it’s enough.

They’re laying together, naked beneath the sheets and relaxing, when Ciara turns to look at her.

“There’s this photography exhibit opening in Brooklyn this weekend, it’s been getting a lot of buzz. Do you maybe wanna go? It’s Saturday at 7.”

She doesn’t want to keep giving the impression that they’re moving towards something serious, but she thinks that maybe agreeing will quiet the issue for now.

“Sure.”

 

 

She doesn’t pay attention when Ciara sends her the details a couple days later, but she saves the address and dresses up for her in a sexy deep v-neck and blazer come Saturday.

 

 

There’s a lot of people at the gallery when they arrive late from dinner, more than she was expecting, and she glances around to get her bearings. Ciara is holding her hand, is laughing at her stupid joke about maybe seeing somebody famous, and leans into the frame of her body, kissing her shoulder.

“Hang tight, I’ll grab us some drinks,” she says, squeezing her hand before releasing it. She just needs a moment to breathe.

She heads in the direction of the nearest wandering waiter only to freeze completely when she notices a photograph hanging on the wall.

It’s a photograph of an empty boat with several life rafts resting on a rocky shore, framed against gorgeous blue water. And it’s far too similar to the picture that—

She looks around, heart hammering, and spots the sign that they originally bypassed. There’s an exhibition title and a bunch of text that’s too far away to read but only one thing matters and it’s the artist’s name.

 _“Fuck_ ,” she curses under her breath. She has so many questions but she also desperately needs to _not_ be here right now.

She weaves through the crowd opposite the way she came from Ciara, knows that she’s being a total ass by fleeing the scene without telling her and this may mean the end of their arrangement. But she _can’t_ be here right now, and she also can’t bear to try to explain why she can’t be here right now.

 

She focuses on darting her way through the crowd, but it’s impossible not to notice some of the large photographs on the wall and the project is so stunning it brings tears to her eyes.

Rickety boats on the shores of the Mediterranean. Empty water jugs abandoned in the Chihuahua desert. Harsh landscapes of migration.

She accidentally knocks shoulders with a man and turns to apologize. And it’s fine, he’s fine, except that then Kat sees her.

A few feet away and frozen mid-conversation, Adena is staring at her.

Adena is _here_ and Adena is wearing a red hijab and Adena looks so beautiful Kat’s heart physically _aches_. It’s too much and she can’t breathe and Adena is frozen looking at her. She does the only thing she can—

She turns and shoves her way toward the exit. She runs.

 

 

Her whole journey home is a string of curses muttered beneath her breath, but she knows there’s no anger behind it. Not anymore. There’s just longing, and so much fucking sadness.

Because Adena is back in New York, and Adena is beautiful and more artistically inspired than ever, and Adena never contacted her.

 

She strips out of her clothes as soon as she gets home, puts on a shower cap and turns the water so hot it’s nearly scalding. She stands under the spray and lets the water sting at her skin, as if she can wash away this entire evening.

She loses track of how long she stands in the shower, letting the water drain around her feet and trying not to think about Adena. Not being able to think about anything but Adena.

When she finally steps out, dries off and lotions, she pulls on a pair of sweats and her favorite comfort hoodie. She knows she should text Sutton and Jane, she _knows_ this. But she also knows that if she tells them they’ll come rushing over and they’ll want to talk about it, and all Kat wants for tonight is to be alone and let herself be sad.

The bottle of whiskey on top of her fridge tempts her, but she reaches for the electric tea kettle instead because she doesn’t want to go down that road again.

 

She crawls into bed with her tea and her ipad and she cries. She cries more than she wants to, but she knows it’s better to cry than to break something. Better to be sad than to self-destruct. She’s worked too damn hard the past several months to do that to herself again.

She reminds herself of how far she’s come, in learning to love who she is. In believing that she is enough even if she couldn’t be what Adena needed. In accepting her shortcomings and areas where she’s still growing and learning and making mistakes.

She drifts off to sleep, surrounded by pillows and eyes tired from crying.

 

 

There’s a knock at her door, gentle at first and then louder and more persistent when she doesn’t answer. Her bedside lamp is still on and she rubs at her eyes, squints toward the door.

She knows it has to be Ciara, that she’s finally had enough and needs to argue it out with her. No one else knows how to get into her building and would be knocking. She wonders what would happen, if she just ignored her for long enough.

But she knows that she can’t, that she needs to end this once and for all even if she doesn’t have the energy to do it with grace right now.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she groans.

She pauses at the door, takes a deep breath and sighs before turning the lock and opening it.

“Hi.” It’s not Ciara. And she forgets how to breathe. “Kat?”

“A-Adena? What’re you doing here?”

If she thought seeing Adena for a few seconds in the gallery was complicated, it’s nothing compared to seeing her like this—standing in her doorway and disarmingly beautiful, eyes searching hers.

 “You ran away from me, and I… I have so many things that I want to say to you and I don’t know how to start a single word of it over the phone.”

There are tears in Adena’s eyes, but there is also a tiny hopeful smile on her lips and Kat can’t stop staring at her. Her heart constricts in her chest so hard that it hurts and she ducks her head down, swallowing.

“I’m sorry, for showing up like this. I- I can leave if you want me to,” Adena says. “I just…I needed to try to see you. I had to try.”

There are so many things she wants to say, but there are tears welling in her eyes and words catching in her throat and all she can manage is—

“But why? You didn’t tell me you were back in New York.” Its more fragile than bitter.

“I didn’t know how, or if I even should. But Kat…” her voice is wavering with emotion but so earnest, and Kat’s terrified to meet her eyes. “I chose to do the gallery exhibition in Brooklyn for a reason.”

Her heart stops, too afraid to hope, to read into what Adena might be saying. “You missed the New York hospitality?” she jokes, deflecting, and finally looks up.

Adena ignores it entirely, reaches her hand out until she’s touching Kat’s arm over the worn material of her hoodie.

“I missed _you_ ,” she says, and Kat trembles. “All the time. Even though there were some things I had to figure out for myself. I always missed you.”

Kat dares to meet her eyes again and she hates that she’s crying, hates that all she wants to do is give in and cling to Adena.

“We weren’t ready the first time we tried this,” Adena continues. “We both wanted so badly to be ready, for it to work, but it was the wrong time. And I-…I don’t know what’s going on in your life now. I don’t know what has changed for you. Eight months is a long time and I want to respect that.”

“But?” Kat ventures, sensing there’s more. Adena’s hand is still holding her bicep and that familiar elated feeling is swelling in her chest, against all rational judgment.

“But I’m ready to try again if you are. And…” Adena pauses, searching her face. “And I know we have so much more to talk about, but I really just want to kiss you right now.”

It’s enough to undo her completely and Kat stares down at her lips, tries to process everything that’s happening, tries to tell herself so many reasons why she needs to _slow_ , why she needs to think, why she needs to—

“You should do that,” Kat says.

Adena’s answering smile is the most gorgeous thing she’s ever seen, and then Adena is cupping her face with all the gentleness in the world, leaning into her.

Her kiss is slow at first, savoring, and Kat feels like she’s unraveling. Their lips glide together and Adena moans, kisses her harder and with mounting desperation, and Kat pulls her into the apartment.

Adena breaks away for a moment, reaches up to pull at the bobby pins keeping her hijab in place before unwrapping the scarf from her head.

When her hair falls loose around her shoulders, Kat leans in to nose at her neck. This feels like a dream, and if it is she never wants to wake up. Adena hums in contentment, wraps her arms around her in a hug.

Kat presses a kiss to her neck, just below her ear, and breathes in the scent of her perfume and shampoo.

“I missed you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very much appreciated and encourage me in my work, especially in light of the low morale of the fandom right now. On tumblr @ starchasertonight


End file.
